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The Course of Honour: A Novel

Por Lindsey Davis

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Calificar: 4.5 de 5 estrellas4.5/5 (20 calificaciones)

Longitud: 412 página7 horas

Editorial:: Macmillan Publishers
Publicado:: May 12, 2009
ISBN:: 9781429990325
Formato:: Libro

Descripción

In ancient Rome, ambitious citizens who aspired to political power, to become one of the ruling elite—a senator, had to follow what was known as "The Course of Honor." This course had only one unbreakable rule: a senator is forbidden to marry a slave, even a freed slave. When the soldier Vespasian meets an interesting girl in the imperial palace, he doesn't know she is a slave in the household of the imperial family. But he is inexorably drawn in by her intelligence and charisma. Yet as Vespasian slowly rises from near-obscurity and as emperor after emperor plays out their own deadly, seductive games of lust and conquest, the future is something no one could imagine. No one could believe that a country-born army man might win the throne—no one, that is, except a slave girl who, with the future Emperor, begins a daring course of honor of her own.

Acciones del libro

Comenzar a leer

Información sobre el libro

The Course of Honour: A Novel

Por Lindsey Davis

Clasificaciones:

Calificar: 4.5 de 5 estrellas4.5/5 (20 calificaciones)

Longitud: 412 página7 horas

Descripción

Editorial:: Macmillan Publishers
Publicado:: May 12, 2009
ISBN:: 9781429990325
Formato:: Libro

Acerca del autor

Lindsey Davis

Lindsey Davis was born and raised in Birmingham, England. After taking an English degree at Oxford and working for the civil service for thirteen years, she “ran away to be a writer.” Her internationally bestselling novels featuring ancient Roman detective Marcus Didius Falco include Venus in Copper, The Iron Hand of Mars, Nemesis and Alexandria. She is also the author of Rebels and Traitors, set during the English Civil War. Davis is the recipient of the Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger Award, the highest accolade for crime writers, as well as the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger Award and the Authors' Club Best First Novel award.

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The Course of Honour - Lindsey Davis

PART ONE:

A BAD-TEMPERED

SLAVEY

Commencing in the autumn of AD 31,

when the Caesar was Tiberius

1

Whatever was that?

The young man arrested his stride. He halted. At his shoulder his brother drew up equally amazed. An incongruous scent was beckoning them. They both sniffed the air.

Incredible! That was a pig’s-meat sausage, vigorously frying.

Everywhere lay silent. The echoes of their own footfalls had whispered and died. No other sign of occupation disturbed the chill, tall, marble-veneered corridors of the staterooms on the Palatine Hill from which the Roman Empire was administered. Under the long-absent Emperor Tiberius these had never offered much of a homely welcome to strangers. Today was worse than ever. Arches that were meant to be guarded stood framed only by forbidding drapes whose heavy pleats had not been disturbed since they were first hung. No one else was here. Only that rich odour of hot meat and spices continued its ravishing assault.

The younger man set off walking faster. He wheeled around corners and brushed along passages as if he had just discovered the proper route to take until, after a fractional hesitation, he whipped open a small door. Before his brother caught up with him he ducked his head and strode through.

A furious female slave exploded, ‘Skip over the Styx; you’re not allowed in here!’

Her hair hung in a lank, sorry string. Her face was pasty, a sad contrast to the tinctured ladies at court. Yet despite her grubbiness, she wore her dull frieze dress with courageous style, and although he knew better he threw back at her drily, ‘Thanks! What an interesting girl!’

Afterwards Caenis could never quite remember which festival it had been. The time of year was certain. Autumn. Autumn, six years before Tiberius died. The year of the fall of Aelius Sejanus, the commander of the Praetorian Guard. Sejanus, who allegedly kept a pack of pet hounds he fed with human blood. Sejanus, who had ruled Rome with a grip of iron for nearly two decades and who wanted to be Emperor.

It could have been the great ten-day series of Games in honour of Augustus. The Augustales, which had been established as a memorial to Rome’s first Emperor and were now conducted in honour of the whole Imperial House, would have been an occasion which explained why Antonia had given most of her slaves and freedmen a holiday, including her Chief Secretary, Diadumenus. Even more likely would have been the actual birthday of Augustus, by then a long-established celebration, a week before October began. Thinking of Augustus, the founder of the Empire, could well have stirred Antonia to what she was about to do.

Foolish, at any rate, for anyone to attempt business at the Palace on such a day. On any state holiday the priests of the imperial cult led the city in the duties of religion while senators, citizens, freedmen and even slaves, from the most privileged librarians to the glistening bathhouse stokers, seized their chance and piled into the temples too. Here on the Palatine the slop-carriers and step-sweepers, the polishers of silver cups and jewel-encrusted bowls, the accountants and secretaries, the chamberlains who vetted visitors, the major-domos who announced their names, the lifters of door curtains and carriers of cushions, had all disappeared hours ago. Sejanus would be lording it at the ceremonies; the Praetorians, who ought to be guarding the Emperor, would be guarding him. Caesar’s palace complex, which even during Caesar’s long absence from Rome thrummed with occupation every day and rustled with innumerable murmurs of life into the dead of night, for once lay hushed.

So the door flew open. Someone strode in. Caenis looked up. She scowled; the man frowned.

‘Here’s somebody—Sabinus!’ he called back over his great shoulder, as he loomed in the low doorway. The fat spattered dangerously beneath the girl’s spoon.

‘Juno and Minerva—’ coughed Caenis, as she was forced back from her pan while the flame lapped sideways across the charcoal brazier in a palely whickering sheet. ‘We’ll all go up in smoke; will you shut that door!’

A second man, presumably Sabinus, came in. This one wore a senator’s broad purple stripe on his toga’s edge. ‘What have you found for us?’

The fat went wild again. ‘Oh for the gods’ sake!’ Caenis swore at them, forgetting their rank as she was nearly set alight.

‘A bad-tempered slavey with a pan of sausages.’

He had the sense at last to close the door.

They were lost. Caenis guessed it at once. Even the open spaces and temples among the homes of imperial family members above the Circus Maximus were deserted. The public offices on the Forum side of the Palatine were closed. Stupid to come today. With no guards to cross spears in their faces these two had blundered down a wrong passageway and ended up bemused. Only people who wanted to indulge in sad habits alone were lurking in corners with their furtive pursuits. Only eccentrics and deviants, misers and malcontents: and Caenis.

She was one of the group of girls who worked with Diadumenus, copying correspondence for the lady Antonia. Today he had ordered her to remain quietly out of trouble; later she must go to the House of Livia, where their mistress lived, and ask whether any work was required. Caenis was junior but capable; besides, Diadumenus had really not anticipated that anything significant would occur. In most respects Caenis was, like everyone else, on holiday.

Hence the sausage. She had been enjoying both her solitude—rare for a slave—and the food too. She had scraped together the price by writing letters for other people and picking up lost coins from corridor floors. She had crept in here, sliced the meat evenly and was cooking it in a pan intended for emulsifying face creams before she ate her treat deliberately, on her own. She craved her sausage with good reason: her starved frame needed the meat and fat, her deprived senses hankered after nuts, spices and the luxury of food fiercely hot from a pan. She hated being interrupted.

‘Excuse me, sirs, you are not allowed in here.’

Warily she tried to camouflage her annoyance. In Rome it was wise to be diplomatic. That applied to everyone. Men who thought they possessed the Emperor’s confidence today might be exiled or murdered tomorrow. Men who wanted to survive had to inveigle themselves into the clique surrounding Sejanus. Making friends had been unsafe for years, for the wrong association clung like onion juice under a chef’s fingernails. Yet so many promising careers were ending in disaster that today’s nobodies might just survive to ride in tomorrow’s triumph beneath the laurels and ribbons of the golden Etruscan crown.

For a slavegirl it was always best to appear polite: ‘Lords, if you are wanting Veronica—’

‘Oh, do cheer up!’ chaffed the first man abruptly. ‘We might prefer you.’

Caenis gave her pan a rapid shimmy, agitating the spatula. She chortled derisively. ‘Rich, I hope?’ The two men glanced at one another, then with a similar slow regretful grin both shook their heads. ‘No use to me then!’

She saw their veiled embarrassment: traditionalists with good family morals—in public, anyway. Veronica would shake them. Veronica was the one to astonish a stiff-necked senator. She believed that a slavegirl who was vivacious and pretty could do as well for herself as she pleased.

Caenis was too single-minded and intense; she would have to make a life for herself some other way.

‘We seem to be lost,’ explained the cautious man, Sabinus.

‘Your footman let you down?’ Caenis queried, nodding at his companion.

‘My brother,’ stated the senator; very straight, this senator.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Vespasianus.’

‘Why no broad stripes too?’ she challenged the brother directly. ‘Not old enough?’ Entry to the Senate was at twenty-five; he was probably not long past twenty.

‘You sound like my mother: not clever!’ he quipped.

Citizens never normally joked with slavegirls about their noble mothers; Caenis stared at him. He had a broad chest, heavy shoulders, a strong neck. A pleasant face, full of character. His chin jutted up; his nose beaked down; his mouth compressed fiercely, though he seemed good-humoured. He had steady eyes. She looked away. As a slave, she preferred not to meet such a gaze.

‘Not ready for it,’ he added, glaring at his brother as if it were a matter of family argument.

Against her better judgement she replied, ‘Or is the Senate not ready for you?’ She had already noticed his obstinate roughness, a deliberate refusal to hide his country background and accent; she admired it, though plenty in Rome would call it coarse.

He sensed her interest. If he wanted it (and she reckoned he did), women probably liked him. Caenis resisted the urge.

‘You have lost yourselves in Livia’s pantry, sir,’ she informed the other man, Sabinus.

There was a sudden stillness, which she secretly enjoyed. Though the cubbyhole looked like a perfumery, the two men would be wondering whether this was where the famous Empress had mixed up the poisons with which, allegedly, she removed those who stood in her way. Livia was dead now, but the rumours had acquired their own momentum and even grew worse.

The two men were nervously surveying the cosmetic jars. Some were empty, their contents evaporated years before; some had leaked so they sat embedded in a tarry pool. Others remained good: glass flasks of almond oil, soapstone boxes of fine wax and fat, amethystine flagons of pomade, stoppered phials of antimony and extract of seaweed, alabaster pots of red ochre, ash and chalk. No place for a cook; rather an apothecary. Veronica would give three fingers to discover this little cave of treasures.

There were other containers, which Caenis had considered but carefully left untouched upon the shelves. Some ingredients could have no possible benign use and had convinced her it was true that Livia must have been in league with the famous poisoner Lucusta. She would keep that to herself.

‘And what are you doing here?’ asked Sabinus, in fascination.

‘Cataloguing the cosmetics, sir,’ Caenis answered demurely, implying otherwise.

‘For whom?’ growled Vespasianus, with a glint that said he would like to know who had replaced Livia as dangerous.

‘Antonia.’

He raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he was ambitious after all.

Her elderly mistress was the most admired woman in Rome. The first lesson Diadumenus had drummed into Caenis was that she must avoid speaking to men who might be trying to manoeuvre themselves into a connection with Antonia. Daughter of Mark Antony and Octavia; Augustus’ niece and sister-in-law of Tiberius; mother of the renowned Germanicus; (mother too of the peculiar Claudius and the scandalous Livilla); grandmother of Caligula and Gemellus, who were to share the Empire one day . . . If a woman must be defined by her male relations, the lady Antonia had gathered some plums, even though Caenis privately found them a specked and mildewed crop. Afflicted with these famous men, Antonia was wise, courageous, and not quite worn out by the indignities she had seen. Even the Emperor took her seriously. Even her slavegirls might wield influence.

‘I rarely see my mistress,’ Caenis stated quietly, lest there be any misunderstanding. ‘I live in the imperial complex here. Her house is too small.’

This was true, yet being appointed to work as a copyist for Antonia had been a magical opportunity.

Though born a slave, Caenis was no skivvy. She had been singled out as bright, then given an education in office skills: reading, writing, ciphers and shorthand, discretion, deportment, graceful conversation in a pleasant voice. She had first-class Latin, and better than average Greek. She understood arithmetic and cheerfully grappled with accounts. She could even think, though she kept that to herself, since she did not choose to embarrass other people by showing she was superior. Only her morose adolescence had prevented her being placed in one of the imperial bureaux before this. They did not allow you into a bureau until they were sure you could deal firmly with senators.

She moved the pan off the brazier and stood up straight to deal with these men now. She had been thoroughly trained. Caenis could melt into backgrounds yet radiate efficiency. She always sat well, to help her handwriting. She stood without slouching; she walked with confidence; she spoke up clearly: she knew how to show uninvited senators to the door with relentless charm.

Whether this applied to pantry doors remained to be seen.

‘Antonia’s cook?’ Sabinus asked curiously as she moved the pan. Men had no idea.

‘Antonia’s secretary,’ she boasted.

‘Why the sausage, Antonia’s secretary?’ asked the brother, still regarding her with that long, frowning stare. ‘Don’t they feed you here?’

The way they were hanging around near her food seemed endearingly hopeful. Caenis grinned, though looking down at her pannikin. ‘Oh the daily slave ration: nothing good, and never enough.’

Sabinus winced. ‘Sounds like a middle-class lunch!’

She liked this senator more than she expected. He seemed honest and well-intentioned. She let herself exclaim, ‘Well, everything’s relative, lord! A rich knight is more cheerful than a poor senator. To be poor but middle class is still better than being a commoner who hardly has the right to pick his nose in the public street. A slave at the Imperial Palace leads a softer life than the free boatman who lives in a flooded shack on the Tiber’s bank—’ Since they did not pull her up, she went on rashly, ‘The power of the Senate has become a delusion; Rome is ruled by the commander of the Praetorian Guard—’

She should never have said that aloud.

To distract them, she rushed on, ‘As for me, I was born in a palace; I have warmth and music, easy work and opportunity to progress. Perhaps more freedom than a high-born Roman girl with a garnet in each ear who lives penned in her father’s house with nothing to do but be married off to some wealthy halfwit who spends all his time trying to escape her for intelligent conversation and unforced sexual favours—even perhaps if he’s not an absolute halfwit, some genuine affection—with the likes of Veronica and me!’

She stopped, breathless. A political statement had escaped her; worse, she had betrayed something of herself: she shifted from foot to foot with unease.

The younger man’s serious gaze was disturbing her. That was why she muttered, ‘Oh do stop leering at my sausage! Want a piece?’

There was a shocked pause.

It was unthinkable.

‘No; thank you!’ said Sabinus hastily, trying to override his brother—no easy task.

Caenis was gruff but generous. Giving up the struggle for privacy, she offered the young knight a slice on the point of her knife; he nipped it off between his fingers at once.

‘Mmm! This is good!’ Laughing now, he watched her while he munched. His grim face lost all its trouble suddenly. She had assumed anyone in a decent white toga dined daily on peacocks aswim in double sauces, yet he ate with the appetite of any starving scullion she knew. Perhaps all their ready money went on laundry bills for togas. ‘Give that fool a bit; he wants it really.’

Caenis eyed the senator. Once again she offered her knife; Sabinus gingerly lifted the food. His brother clapped his shoulder heavily so she caught the gleam of his gold equestrian ring. Then he admitted to Caenis, ‘His footman, as you say! I clear a path in the street, chase off bailiffs and unattractive women, guard his clothes like a dog at the baths—and I see he gets enough to eat.’

She could not tell how much of this was a joke.

By now she found in his face the bright signal that he liked her. She knew the look; she had seen it in men who danced attendance on Veronica. Caenis shrank from it. She found life a burden already. The last thing she needed was fending off some overfriendly hopeful with a broad country accent and no money. ‘Let me give you directions, lords.’

‘We’ll get the girl into trouble,’ Sabinus warned.

For the first time his brother smiled at her. It was the tight, rueful smile of a man who understood constraints. She was too wise to smile back. Still chewing, he refused to move. Studying the floor, Caenis ate her own sausage from the knife point, slowly. It was decent pork forcemeat, flavoured with myrtle berries, peppercorns and pine nuts; she had tossed it on the heat in oil strewn with the good end of a leek.

Only two slices remained in the pan. The younger brother, Vespasian, reached for one, then stopped and reproached her kindly, ‘You’re letting us steal your dinner, lass.’

‘Oh go on!’ she urged him, suddenly shy and cross. It had been giving her pleasure to offer something other than a slavegirl’s usual trade.

He looked serious. ‘I shall repay the debt.’

‘Perhaps!’

So they had eaten together, she and that big young man with the cheery chin. They ate, while the brother waited; then both licked their fingers and both rapturously sighed. They all laughed.

‘Let me show you the way, lords,’ Caenis murmured, newly subdued as the sunlight of a different world filtered into the bleakness of her own. She led them into the corridor; they walked either side of her while she basked in their presence as she took them towards the public rooms.

‘Thanks,’ they both said, in the off-hand way of their rank.

Without answer she spun swiftly on the ball of her loosely slippered foot. She walked away as she had been taught: head up, spine straight, movement unhurried and disciplined. The grime and desolation imposed by her birth became irrelevant; she ignored her grey condition and was herself. She sensed that they had halted, expecting her to look back from the corner; she was afraid to turn, in case she saw them laugh at her.

Neither did. The senator, Flavius Sabinus, accepted their odd adventure quietly enough. As for his brother, he smiled faintly, but he did not mock.

He knew he should not attempt to see her again. Caenis had missed the significance, but he realised at once. It was like him; a swift assessment of the situation followed by his private decision long before any public act. He was due to leave Rome again, due to leave Italy in fact. But all through his long journey back to Thrace, and afterwards, Flavius Vespasianus still thought, What an interesting girl!

2

At dusk that same day, Caenis obeyed her instructions from Diadumenus, and went to check whether their mistress required her services. Washed and with her hair combed, she walked quietly, carrying a bound note tablet and her wooden stylus box.

The House of Livia lay adjacent to the Palace, convenient, yet still private when social distance was required. This was—in theory—the famous modest home which Augustus had ensured he kept. It had helped maintain the myth that despite the honours heaped upon him when he accepted the title of Emperor, he had remained an ordinary citizen: the first among equals, as a phrase wryly had it. In this house, it was said, his wife and daughter had worked at their looms to weave the Emperor’s garments as Roman women were traditionally supposed to do for their male relatives. Perhaps sometimes, when other matters did not detain them, Livia and Julia really did devote themselves to weaving. Not often enough, in Julia’s case. She had still found time to lead a life so debauched it earned her exile and infamy, then finally death by the sword.

For the past two years since the venerable Empress died, Livia’s house had been Antonia’s house only; it stood on the south-east corner of the Palatine Hill in an area where notable republicans had once owned houses. Augustus, who was born there, had bought out the other families and made this an exclusive domain of his own. His original private house had been demolished to make way for his great new Temple of Apollo in the Portico of the Danaids, so the Senate had presented him with a replacement next to the temple with magnificent rooms for entertaining. His wife, Livia, maintained her own modest (though exquisite) house behind the temple. So in effect they had the benefits of a private palace, while still pretending to live in a classically simple Roman home.

Antonia had lived here after she married Livia’s popular and heroic son Drusus. When she was widowed at only twenty-seven, she elected to remain in her mother-in-law’s house, keeping the room and the bed she had shared with her husband. By then the mother of three children herself, she had the right to avoid being placed in the charge of a guardian; living with Livia preserved her independence while avoiding scandal. It had also enabled her to refuse, for the rest of her life, to remarry. Rare among Roman women, Antonia made her independence permanent.

Livia’s House was set against the side of the hill. Means had been provided for secluded access from the administrative palace complex via underground tunnels. Caenis automatically took the covered route. That way she was unlikely to run into the Praetorian Guards. Their job was to protect the Emperor, but with Tiberius away and their commander, Sejanus, usurping all authority, they had become unendurable. Luckily few were on duty today and none in the underground passages.

She passed the two side branches, then darted down the final stretch, feeling safe. Not even the Guards would normally interfere with Antonia’s visitors. But if the mood took them, or if they had been drinking more than usual, they could still be dangerous to a slave. They were the arrogant élite, protected by the mere name of Sejanus, thugs who molested anyone they chose.

As for Sejanus, nobody could touch him. He had risen from the middle rank, a soldier whose ambition was notorious. A man of some charm, he had made himself the friend of the Emperor, who had few close associates otherwise. It was known, though never openly stated, that Sejanus had then become the lover of Livilla, Antonia’s daughter, while she was married to the Emperor’s son. It was even whispered that he and Livilla had conspired to murder her husband. Worse plots were almost certainly afoot. It was safest not to wonder what they were.

Shivering slightly, Caenis clanged the bell and waited for admittance, knowing the porter would probably be in holiday mood and slow to respond. Coming via the covered way had brought her to the back entrance near the garden, where the porter would be even lazier than at the main entrance near the Temple of Victory. She hated to stand outside a closed door expecting to be spied on by someone unseen and unheard within. Feeling exposed, she turned her back.

When Antonia’s steward had purchased Caenis from the main imperial training school, the process was so discreet it seemed more like an adoption than a business in which title transferred and money changed hands. Antonia herself probably knew nothing about it. The opportunity to work in this high position had not come easily and once achieved it did not automatically lead to full trust. Caenis easily outstripped the competition in basic secretarial tasks, but Antonia was wary of granting access to her private papers, and rightly so. The girl had remained on probation, little more than a copyist. Her first sign of acceptance was when Diadumenus left her on duty alone today. It marked a vital step forward, Caenis knew that. She was desperate to do well.

A muttering porter finally answered her summons and admitted her. Patiently enduring the delay, she was still revelling in her luck. Through the discreet portals of this comparatively modest house came Roman statesmen and foreign potentates, the scions of satellite countries—Judaea, Commagene, Thrace, Mauretania, Armenia, Parthia—and the eccentric or notorious members of Antonia’s own family. Influential Romans, those with a long-term eye on the future, enjoyed Antonia’s patronage. Since today was a festival, visitors might have been here this evening, though for once Caenis found the house unusually quiet.

Passing through the peristyle garden and down a short internal corridor she reached a roofed atrium with a black and white tiled floor at the centre of the formal suite. Opposite, a long flight of steps led down from the main door. To either side of her lay public rooms, a reception area and a dining room, both exquisitely decorated with high-quality wall paintings. The private suites and bedrooms lay beyond them and on upper floors, all much smaller rooms.

Her role was to present herself to the usher Maritimus, then if required for dictation she would attend on her mistress in one of the cubicles attached to the receiving room. Tonight Maritimus, who seemed flustered, left her in the receiving room; then for some reason she had to wait. She studied the fine fresco of Io, guarded by Argus, and apprehensively eyeing Mercury as he crept around a large rock to rescue her; he looked like the kind of curly-haired lad-about-town Io’s mother had probably warned her about.

Trying to calm herself, Caenis arranged her waxed note tablet and took out a stylus. Normally Diadumenus, as Chief Secretary, would be here to prevent her feeling so exposed. Still, she was familiar with the kind of correspondence required. Antonia owned and organised a vast array of personal property, including estates in Egypt and the East inherited from her father, Mark Antony. At her court she had brought up the princes from far-flung provinces who had been sent to Rome by shrewd royal fathers or simply carried off by the Romans as hostages, and many letters were still written to those who had since returned home. They held no terrors for an able scribe, although this would be the first time Caenis had worked unsupervised with Antonia.

Maritimus the tetchy usher bustled in again. ‘I’m supposed to find Diadumenus. Is there only you? Where’s Diadumenus?’

‘Given free time for the festival.’

‘It won’t do!’ He was sweating.

‘It will have to,’ said Caenis cheerfully, refusing to acknowledge an emergency unless he explained.

Maritimus scowled at her. ‘She wants to write a letter.’

‘I can do that.’ Caenis longed for authority. She enjoyed her new work. She took genuine pleasure in using her skills, and was fascinated by what she saw of Antonia’s correspondence. She accepted that she did not yet see it all. Even so, this sense of not being acceptable tonight grated on her. ‘Will you tell her I’m here?’

‘No; she wants Diadumenus. I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s upset her. You can’t do this; it’s something about her family.’

Antonia never talked about her family. She bore that dreadful burden entirely alone.

‘I am discreet!’ Caenis blazed angrily.

‘It’s political!’ hissed the usher.

‘I know how to keep my mouth shut.’ Any sensible slave did.

It was not enough. Maritimus clucked and bustled off again. Caenis resigned herself to frustration. She wondered what crisis had upset Antonia.

Now she was seeing the world and her own place within it through fresh eyes. Working in a private house felt wonderful. She had already witnessed at close hand how Roman government was conducted. Like most family matters, it was based on short-term loyalties and long-term bad temper, pursued in an atmosphere of spite, greed and indigestion. Caenis had never had a family; she watched with delight.

Whatever had disturbed her mistress this particular evening, the young secretary already appreciated the background: the Emperor Tiberius, whose famous brother, Drusus, had been Antonia’s husband, spent the last years of his bitter reign in depraved exile on the island of Capri; it had come to be accepted in Rome that he would never return here again. He was already over seventy so the question of a successor was never far away.

Since Augustus had first based his political position upon his family ties with Julius Caesar, ruling Rome had become an inheritable right. Between genuine accidents and the grappling ambition of their fearsome womenfolk, most of the male heirs had gone to their graves. The Emperor’s own son, married to Antonia’s daughter Livilla, had died in rather odd circumstances eight years before. By default the choice now fell between Livilla’s son, Gemellus, and his cousin Caligula. A fine pair: Caligula, who when barely into his teens had seduced his own sister here in Antonia’s house, or Gemellus, who was deeply unpleasant and permanently sickly. But if Tiberius died in the near future Rome would be left to these two very young boys while immense power was also being wielded by Sejanus. Maybe Sejanus would prefer another solution.

Quite quietly and without any warning, Antonia came into the room. Caenis sprang to her feet.

Antonia was nearly seventy, though she still had the round face, soft features, wide-set eyes and sweet mouth that had made her a famous beauty. Her hair, thinning now, was parted centrally and taken back above her ears to the nape of her neck in a neat, traditional style. Her gown and stole were unobtrusively rich, her earrings and pendants heavy antiques—attributes of extreme wealth and power to which she paid no

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A very interesting riff from Davis - a biographical novel about the emperor Vespasian's lover Antonia Caenis. Well worth reading.

This book remains my favorite of all her books. I have read every book this gracious lady has written, but the story of Vespasian's lady, based in real events, is the most compelling work of Lindsey Davis to date.

Wavering between 3 and 4 stars. The middle part, when Vespasian is mostly absent, definitely drags a little; plus at times (especially the chapters covering the Year of the Four Emperors) it feels more like reading a history textbook than a novel, albeit an engaging one. But I LOVE the relationship between Caenis and Vespasian. I love how the author doesn't try to downplay or modernize the concept of "duty" as the Romans understood it. Also, love how the nods to Suetonius are worked in--Vespasian referred to as Sabinus' footman, etc., etc. Overall, an enjoyable read.

This is the fictionalized biography of Antonia Caenis, the woman the Emperor Vespasian loved his entire life. Due to Roman law, they could never marry, as she was born a slave, even after she became a freed woman. As a prophet told her and the future ruler of Rome, her face would never be on the coinage. Caenis is an empathetic personality. Touchy, but brilliant, she never gave up on her love and did everything possible to launch his brilliant career. The weaving of these lives into the history and politics of Rome was excellently done, as Caenis was first hand witness to the more spectacular events of the Julio-Claudian dynasty. As a long term fan of Davis' Falco mystery series, this is the best thing she's written. She found a female voice, who though stoic can't be called long sufferings, as she succeeded in a world designed to defeat her.

Fictionalized and imagined biography of Antonia Caenis, the consort of the Emperor Vespasian. All we actually know about her is that she was a freedwoman of the Empress Antonia, that Vespasian had a relationship with her for decades, that after the death of his legal wife, she lived with him openly, and that Domitian was rude to her in public once, and this was noted unfavorably (to him). On this slender basis, Davis weaves a story set in the Julia-Claudian court, and taking in most of that tumultuous history. Having read many of the Falco books before this, I found the protagonist to be very like Helena Justina, and a bit of a Mary Sue. But it was still a good book, and well worth reading.

Before reading this book I hadn't read much historical fiction that takes place in Ancient Rome, so this was pretty new to me. I loved that this was based on real people and real events. This was fascinating and written well. I would definitely recommend this to anyone interested in Ancient Rome or any historical fiction fans. I look forward to reading more of Lindsey Davis' books.

I adore Davis' Falco series set in Vespasian's Rome, its one of my favorite historical mysteries and if there's a new one, I always read it. This book is Davis' take on Vespasian's career told through the eyes of Caenis, the slave and then freedwoman who he loved throughout his entire life. We follow everything through Caenis' eyes. She is a slave in the palace and then later for Antonia, so has a unique perspective on the Claudians. The romance between Vespasian and Caenis is subtly presented as their lives are complicated in terms of class, money and politics. Davis handles it all deftly as well as weaving through it a knowledge of yes, we all know how this ends but lets play in the details. Reading this made me want to go and reread and rewatch I, Claudius, which examines the same general area in time, a masterful historical novel.

Lovely book by Lindsey Davis, whose magnum opus is the Falco series of Roman whodunnits. This stand-alone novel is not a mystery, but a fictionalized life of Caenis, the mistress of the Emperor Vespasian. There really was a Caenis; according to the Roman historian Suetonius, she became Vespasian's wife in all but name after the death of his wife Flavia. Around the slender frame of the known facts, Davis winds a believable and touching story of the relationship between a girl who started out as a slave, and an emperor who started out as the son of a minor provincial official. Full of historical information, but none of it in the least impedes the flow of the novel.

This is not a romance novel. That's really important to know, because if you're looking for a romance novel (it is, for some reason that totally escapes me, labeled as "romantic suspense") this is not the book for you.It is however, a very good and enjoyable novel about love. • Lindsey Davis has mastered the history of Rome and I couldn't pick out any historical errors - there might be some, but I sure didn't see 'em, or if I did it was good enough I didn't care.• The lead character is kind of an awesome feminist figure. She's incredibly independent and takes no shit. Also, it doesn't do that awful thing where they pretend life ends at 30. We follow about 40 years of her life - and she never stops being herself.• Historical characters seem like they're real breathing living people. She makes the world feel incredibly alive and real and immediate.• The story develops in a very organic kind of way, feeling like a life story, not like a forced narrative. This actually works really well - I was interested enough that I wanted to know what would happen, even without a plot-driven narrative.----• I probably wouldn't have been nearly so interested if I hadn't known my Roman history like the back of my hand - the reason the narrative worked was that I knew that Vespasian would be emperor someday (OMG spoilers! But seriously, it's 2,000 years old) and I just wanted to see how it would happen.

Before she started her witty and successful Falco series, Lindsey Davis wrote this book, but couldn't get it published. How glad I am that Falco's success allowed us to see this gem! As the readers' poll on her website testifies, it is in many ways her best - and best-loved - book.

Historical romance set up with a fabulous heroine.

Lovely story about the paths of the lives of a Roman emperor-to-be and a slave woman of intelligence, who happen to love one another

Unlike her other novels, this is not a murder mystery, but a novel about the romance between Antonia Caenis and Vespasian, which lasted from their youth when she was a slave and he was the son of a provincial tax collector, and lasted until her death when he was Emperor of Rome and she lived openly as his freedwoman consort (he could not under Roman law marry a freedwoman). Funny, engaging and horrible in places (as is inevitably going to be the case in a novel set in the times of the Julio-Claudians), this is for me a more interesting read than the Falco whodunnits, which I quite like but find a bit too superficial compared to the murder mysteries of Steven Saylor.

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The Course of Honour: A Novel

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